While You Lay Sleeping
by izzah9701
Summary: What were night terrors when one was King of Greenwood the Great? He should not have them. In fact, the thought of them shouldn't have even crossed his mind. But there were no one-eyed monsters with fangs for teeth and claws for hands in Thranduil's nightmares, only a day when he was happy and a woman that he could not save.


He had begun to shiver, Thranduil noted absentmindedly. Wrapping his arms about himself, the Elven king took another step onto the snow-covered ground, a pure white that rivaled even that of the clouds' with not even a hint of grass peeking out rebelliously from underneath them. When the soles of his bare feet touched the little particles that formed the powdery substance, an unexpected shiver was sent shooting up his spine – or rather, it was expected. It should have been expected. It was the dead of winter yet here he was, out in the cold with a distinct lack of outerwear and no shoes. He had nothing protect him from the onslaught of the cold but his flimsy silken pyjamas.

And they most certainly were not meant to be worn out on a winter night.

With his arms wrapped about himself, the king could only move his hands up and down, up and down to try to rub some warmth back into his body. Valar help him, but there had to some way to stop the cold from biting into his skin!

_Go inside._

_I can't._

Thranduil caught himself, stopping suddenly as if he had run into an unmoving wall of brick. If it were at all possible, he could've sworn that he'd run into himself. Was he talking to himself? Had he descended into madness? Would this mean Legolas' ascension to the throne?

Bah! But he was getting ahead of himself. He knew that he had always had a natural inclination to respond to stupidity – was that too harsh a word? – with cutting wit, or at the very least with a reply that would shoot down any ludicrous suggestions. Except, was it truly so ridiculous to simply turn around and go back inside, to the warmth of his bed, a fire burning at his feet? All it would take was a split second turn on his heels and a few – perhaps not a few, but certainly not more than fifteen – steps to the gates.

But there was a reason he was here. There had been something that had prompted him to get out of bed and pad silently out to the gardens, even as the guards posted outside his chambers began to formulate the beginnings of a query. It irked him that he couldn't remember what it was. In fact, he couldn't even remember how he'd gotten out here in the first place. Clearly, he'd walked, but there were no traces of that walk in his mind. He couldn't for the life of him remember the turns he'd taken and the hallways he'd tread through to make his way here.

And here happened to be a garden that did not at all resemble a garden. Never mind the snow. Never mind the weather that would not allow anything to grow. He distinctly recalled that it had been made impermissible to enter the gardens.

By his father? Or had it been him to decree it? Vaguely, Thranduil thought of how it was rather cruel of him to do so. Wood elves loved trees, particularly old ones that told of a time long gone and stories of its lifetime – and there was a strikingly large oak tree right in the middle of the garden, an obvious sign to its age. It had probably been here since the Second Age, before a prince had become a king.

Walking up to the tree now, Thranduil could only look up in wonderment at the towering branches it held. Once, when he was young and fanciful, he would've climbed up to the highest branch and reached out his hand to touch the stars. They were so beautiful, their light in stark contrast to the dark of the night. He imagined that one might even deign to fall into his hand, if only he could stretch his arm just a little bit further.

"_Ada_, look!" called the voice of a young child, and Thranduil could not help the speed with which his head whipped around. There was nothing. Or if there was something, then he could not see it. But, as surely as the sun rose in the east and set in the west, the voice came again, and this time, he was certain that he recognized it. It was the gift and the curse of an elf, a long memory. He never forgot anything. "_Ada_, look at me!"

Instinctively, almost as if he were reliving a scene from his past, the king's arms fell to his sides and he adopted the stern tone of a father as he said, "_Dian las,_ no. That doesn't look to be very safe at all."

But, of course, Legolas never listened to him – he blamed it on his constant indulgence of the child – and no sooner had the restriction left his lips then his little elfling was speeding past him, trying to gain enough momentum to launch him into the miniature mountain of snow that he'd finished building not two minutes ago. Watching his son now tearing through the field, his arms crossed over his chest, the king conceded that he should've put a stop to the snow play the moment it started. As much as he was the crown prince, Legolas, son of Thranduil, was just as mischievous and surely he had not expected anything less than this to happen when he saw what his son was building. Now the child was going to sprain an arm or a leg, or even worse! He'd break it. How would he explain that to the queen then?

"Legolas, stop," he tried again, but he knew it would mean nothing. If there was one thing he could count on, it was the child's singular purpose and for now, that pile of snow was his mind's only focus. His fate was inevitable.

However, even knowing this, Thranduil could not keep his breath from catching in his throat and his heart from pounding against the confinements of his chest when Legolas stopped running, and instead began sailing through the air, heading straight for the snow hill. On any other given day, under any other circumstance, the sight of his only son stuck in a pile of snow with only the very tips of his boots poking out would have been nothing short of comical. But for now, he was horror stricken, and he could no sooner stop himself from running to the elfling's side than he could stop an advancing army of Orcs, ten thousand strong, on his own. "_Iôn-nin_," he cried.

The cold of the snow stung the skin of his bare hands, but he ignored them, fatherly instincts taking over. He grabbed fistfuls of snow, pushing them away, shoveling through them to find his son. From somewhere under his frantic hands, he could hear giggling, so to some extent, Thranduil was confident that his son was alright – but that did not change the fact that the rapid beating of his heart would not slow to a more acceptable pace until he had found the fair head of the elfling. He could feel his sleeves beginning to dampen as the snow melted and despite the biting chill of winter, beads of perspiration were beginning to form on his forehead. "Valar help me, Legolas, I will beat you raw. You will not be able to sit for a week."

"_Nana_ will not allow it," came his son's cheeky reply just as the king unearthed his nose. Then a tongue protruded through the snow and proceeded to eat some of it up. "Is snow edible, _Ada_?"

Which of those two completely unrelated sentences was he to respond to? "You ask me that after you have already eaten it, _penneth_. Now where is the wisdom in that?" He pushed bits of snow away from the child's face, his whole body warming at the sight of the endearing features that he knew so well, from the blue of his eyes to the curve of his smile. As he pulled the elfling out of the snow, the young king put on as menacing a tone as he could manage. "And if I so chose to hit you, Legolas, your mother would not be able to stop me."

"But you wouldn't hit me, would you, _Ada_?"

Valar, but the child knew that he was his only weakness. He should not have brought him those little soldiers when he returned from Imladris.

The king scooped his son up into his arms and pushed back the stray hairs that had escaped from its braid. There would be enough snowy adventures for the day – for the rest of the week really, if he were honest. What had he been thinking when he said that he wanted a son? "I will not answer that question, Legolas, because I may very well find that one day, I will have to punish you." The child in his arms looked up at his father in alarm, and he in turn, smiled benignly down at him. "But today is not that day. No child should be punished for merely entertaining himself, no matter how dangerous the activity may be. Let us get you cleaned up now, and make you presentable for dinner."

"And then we can go see _Nana_?" the elfling asked excitedly.

Unconciously, Thranduil held the child a little tighter, a little closer, citing some nonsense about spending time after dinner and reading to his mother. Even as Legolas began rattling off the titles of books he'd recently read that his mother might enjoy, the king was filled with dread. He did not want to sit at the head of an empty table any longer. He did not want to open the doors to his quarters and find his wife, the mother of his child, pregnant with their second and sickly. It had been weeks since he last saw her walking about. It had been weeks since the healers had come and pronounced it a miracle that she had not lost the child and since they told him that…

But he could hardly bring himself to think of the words. They had not yet come to pass. That was a matter for another day.

As he rounded the corner to the stairwell, a flash of gold and blue moved just out of the corner of his eye. He did not need to turn his attention to the gardens to know what it was. Putting Legolas down, Thranduil placed a firm hand on the child's shoulder, the one thing that always told his son that he needed to obey his father just now. "Legolas, go upstairs and have Firyë help you wash. I will meet you in precisely half the hour for dinner. Go now."

Thranduil barely waited for his son's form to disappear from sight before he turned around and went back in the direction from which he came, all the while only one thought in his mind.

That she should not be out of bed. That she was not well enough yet.

He was sure that she heard his footsteps before her maids even began to scurry away. Their king was normally a fair man, the picture of serenity, but when he was so provoked, he wore his wrath upon his sleeve. And right now, he was worried and that worry served only to intermingle with his anger at the guards for letting her leave and the maids for helping her. Such was his ire that he could not undertake the task of stringing words together and constructing a sentence. Oh, but how could she have been so foolish as to leave her bed and come down here? It was a long walk from their bedroom and there was a closer garden. He'd made sure of it.

"Eirien." His voice as he said her name was soft and gentle, the kind that he reserved only for those he loved – there weren't very many of them – and no one was more surprised than he. Such tenderness from a man who wore the face of an angry god. What the maids must think of him.

When she turned to face him, her eyes were twinkling with mirth and Thranduil, through the anger and fear, felt a sharp pain in his heart. He had not seen her eyes so full of light in what must've been a lifetime. She was always far too tired. And her voice when she spoke made him want to break. "_Gûr-nin_, there is no need for you to look so troubled."

Thranduil opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, the sound of her voice once again wafted into his ears. "I know you are worried, but as you can see, I am perfectly fine. I haven't felt so well in an age."

"But the healers –"

She just laughed, a light sound. Taking his hands in hers, she inched forward, moving closer and closer and closer to him until – ah, _until_. There was nary a space left between them and she looked up into his eyes. "Let us not speak of healers and herbs and potions right now, Thranduil. Let us just stand here and listen to the breeze singing through the leaves of the tree. They have a story to tell, you know." She turned around then, but never relinquished their close proximity, and there was nothing more to it. All he could do was to sigh, but it was not one borne out of a long suffering. No, it was one of contentment. Much as he worried, it was nice to have her so close. "Don't just stand there," her voice pulled him out of his reverie, her fingers lacing through his own as she brought his arms up. "Hold me now, my love."

He could feel the gentle swell of her belly underneath his palms and though they were as close as they could possibly be, Thranduil's arms tightened around her, trying to pull her even closer. He should not like there to be even a fraction of a hair's breadth between them. It had been a good long while since he had been able to hold her like this, partly because of the toxin running through her veins and partly for his fear of hurting her. He hadn't expected to remember so well the way her body fit against his perfectly or the way her hair tickled his nose. She had always refused to put her hair in a braid.

"I think that our Little Leaf has gotten into a little bit of mischief here," she said suddenly, her voice tinged with humour.

_Rhach ha_, but he had been hoping she would never find out about that. The king cleared his throat, but it was more for theatrics than anything else. Considering the fact that she knew, he might as well humour her. "Did the oak tell you that?"

She twisted around in his arms and he could see that her cheeks had begun to redden. Should he be worried? He placed a finger to her cheek, stroking it reverently. This was the time to insist that she return to their chambers. But the queen, of course, had other plans, and she placed a hand gingerly on her husband's arm. "Nothing is amiss, Thranduil. I am alright." Eirien turned her head a little to the left and planted a sweet, chaste kiss upon her lord's index finger. "Stop fretting, please. I will let you know if I feel the slightest bit unwell."

Even as the words left her mouth, Thranduil knew he did not believe her. She would not tell him because she would not wish to frighten him. She had always been that way. Her love for him was too strong, she used to say. But he kept his thoughts to himself.

Choosing not to notice the frown etched onto his brow, his queen went ahead with their conversation as if they hadn't been speaking of her fading health mere seconds ago. "Actually," she began matter-of-factly, "the oak told me nothing. But I see that someone has gone to great lengths to make a mountain out of snow and I can only conclude that it was the work of our son."

Through some miracle or perhaps nothing more than sheer will, Thranduil smiled a small smile down at his wife and said quite cheerfully, "It was his doing. He thought it would be fun to dive into the snow." Eirien's eyes widened considerably and the look on her face was an affective balm to his heart. "He is alright," he quickly added. "All his limbs are in tact and there is not a scratch on him. And before you begin to scold me, I will have you know that I tried to stop him. But Legolas is your child and he is just as headstrong as you. There was no stopping him once he'd decided upon it."

"You seem to forget, my love, that of the two of us, you are far more stubborn. I couldn't get you to postpone your trip to Imladris when you had a horrible case of stomach flu."

"I still maintain that it was the Dwarven ale. But that would teach me to dine with them, and to touch anything less than the finest Dorwinion at that!"

Eirien swatted his arm playfully. She happened to like the dwarves, and he loved her regardless of that knowledge. "Eirien." His sentences almost always seemed to start with her name and she couldn't help but smile at that. His hand, which had thus far been idle upon her hip, had travelled up the length of her back to settle on the back of her neck. He was tilting her chin up. She'd been married to him for long enough to know where this was going, and yet, her stomach still managed to release a flight of butterflies and perform somersaults all at the same time. Valar, but his eyes were such a beautiful shade of blue. "You make me so happy. Do you know that?"

If she had responded, she did not notice.

"And I believe that you must have secret knowledge of my love for the sky and dressed accordingly today so as to perhaps lessen my ire with you."

For a moment, she was confused. He could see that. But then, a heartbeat later, he also saw realization dawn upon her features and she looked down at the gown she was wearing, the colour of the bluest skies of spring. "How could I possibly not know my husband's most favourite thing in the world?"

There was little else to do but kiss her and Thranduil was not about to deny himself the pleasure of capturing her lips within his. Her arms snaked around his neck, bringing her even closer if it were at all possible. Her lips parted just the slightest bit and he could hear her breathing as he dipped his head down, closing the distance between them. It did not matter that the maids were still somewhere in the gardens or that at any moment, Galion could be walking through the halls and catch sight of his king locked in a passionate embrace – he would not be able to escape the teasing for several long months, he was sure.

Just as their lips were about to touch, Thranduil stopped, mere millimeters away from her. "Eirien," he started again. He was repeating himself, he knew. And his sentences seemed to always begin with her name. He knew this, too. But this time, there was a reason.

It was the strangest thing. He had seen crimson on his pants, but he distinctly remembered wearing silver today. He remembered because Legolas had burst into his closet as he was dressing and reaching for the burgundy coat, and very loudly voiced his wish for his _Ada_ to wear silver.

There should not be crimson.

"Eirien." But that was all he managed to get out before he felt her falling away from him. Thranduil's hands – one which had been on the back of her neck, and the other on her cheek – immediately went to her back, catching her just in time to break her fall.

"Eirien." Her skin had turned deathly pale and though the winter air was still biting, the colour had drained from her cheeks.

Somewhere behind him, he could hear the hurried footfalls of the maids as they ran off, having practically shouted something about fetching the healers – _all_ the healers. There was something gravely wrong with their queen.

However, Thranduil had been around enough dying men to know what was happening, and even if he hadn't, he was incredibly intelligent and did not need a healer to tell him what he already knew. Her chest barely rose and fell with her breathing. He knew what was happening. The crimson on his pants told him about it, even when he hadn't yet realized it.

"Eirien." He lowered her gently to the ground, holding her close to him.

"Eirien." He was crouching now. He was frantically shaking her.

"Eirien." He refused to believe that this was happening, that there was nothing he could do.

"Eirien." He looked down at her legs and saw crimson upon the blue of the sky.

It was all he could do not to scream.

"Father?" Was that the first or the tenth time that Legolas had called for him? The king began to notice the light emanating from three different torches. There were guards. Legolas must've summoned them upon realising that Thranduil was nowhere to be found. Then there was a hand on his shoulder, heavy and firm, and for quite the first time, Thranduil realized that he was seated upon the ground, his arms before him as if holding something precious. "Father, what are you doing out here? It's freezing."

What a sight he must present, Thranduil thought. The great king of Mirkwood, sitting out in the cold in a garden that was unfit to be even called that, having suffered some form of hallucination or emotional breakdown.

He let out a shaky breath, bringing his hands up to his face and pressing the heel of them to his eyes. Not now. There could be no tears. Not in front of them. Vaguely, he heard himself issue an order for everyone to leave, but his voice sounded detached from him. And then there were footsteps, light ones that sounded nothing like the rushing away of guards. They were taking extra care not to further aggravate the king because, of course, there would be hell to pay when morning came. The only one that hadn't left was Legolas and he knew this because the hand that was upon his shoulder was still there, and he could feel the leather of his son's boot brushing against his bare foot.

Any longer and he would not be able to keep the tears from falling.

"Father…"

And there it was. Everything inside Thranduil seemed to burst. His hands were torn away from his face, only to have his arms be able to wrap around himself – _tightly_. He was openly weeping now, deep, grief-stricken sobs that wracked through his whole being. "I saw her die again, _Dian Las_." Legolas pretended not to notice his father's use of a childhood nickname. "I could not save her. I have watched her die so many times, but I have never been able to save her. I could not save her. I could not save her." His voice was hardly above a whisper as he enunciated the words.

There were a great many things that Elvenkind – and Man, and even others that didn't fall into that category – know of the king. They know that he would do everything within his power to stop anything from devastating his people, whether it was to wage wars or to back away from them. They know that he was a fierce fighter who carried not one, not two, but _three_ blades into battle and always had his bow and arrows. They know that he was second only to his son in this matter, and even then, it was Thranduil who had trained him. They know that he had particularly excellent taste in wine and that he hosted the best parties. They know that he loved precious jewels and gems, but they also know that he treasured his son far more than any earthly treasures.

For the ones that knew, he was either a great leader, beloved and reveled, or a coward, hiding within the great fortress that was once Greenwood.

But for all their knowing, they could not know that nearly every night, he awoke with a start. They could not know that his dreams were haunted by fire and screams and destruction. They could not know that once every fortnight, he spent the better part of his night watching his wife die and trying in vain to save her. They could not know that the great king they saw by day, the great king that they sought for aid, was replaced by a crippled man in the night, one who lay crumpled upon the grounds of an abandoned garden, sad and pathetic.

They could not know. They would not even think it fathomable.

* * *

**So, this was the first thing that I had written in a very long time. Three years to be exact. My skills are a bit rusty, I know, but I wanted to at least try to get back into the swing of things. Let's just agree to call me a newbie writer, then? And you would be kind to newbies, wouldn't you? So how's about a review? **


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